


Hero

by Nicole Crucial (moilArchitect)



Category: Un Lun Dun - China Miéville
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-07-01
Updated: 2012-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-30 16:29:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/333742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moilArchitect/pseuds/Nicole%20Crucial
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She was a sidekick and he was half ghost. Naturally, neither of them ever expected to end up the saviors of both worlds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Epidemic

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to Hero, a fanfic challenge introduced by the LJ community 30kisses. This collection, the story of Deeba and Hemi of Un Lun Dun by China Mieville told in disjointed bits and pieces, follows the challenge set-surprise-"Hero," or Beta. (The chapter titles are each prompt.) This first piece basically embodies the "what would happen if they failed?" aspect of the book, and it's a little darker than China Mieville's masterpiece.

It was more like a disease than a creature, she supposed.

Back to back, they stared down the smoglodytes, smombies, and stink-junkies with desperation in their eyes. Everywhere there was the impenetrable black clot that was the Smog, and it roiled and thickened and it seemed to be _laughing_  at them.

It was, Deeba knew. It was laughing as everything it touched was turned black and ugly with its disease; with the muck and chemicals and horrible tar that made up the Smog itself. It didn't  _create_  things, it _corrupted_  them.

Infected. UnLondon was infected--sodden with the hungry black mass, a wisp of pitchy cloud wrapped softly around the darkness in everyone's hearts. There was darkness in her heart and there was darkness in Hemi's, and she knew beyond anything else that it was that darkness that would bring them down.

It would crawl in through their nostrils, ears, mouths; seep its way into their skin; cloud their lungs and fill their organs, their veins, and smother them in the inky dark smoke and never let them go. It would do to them what it had done to so many others already, and it would laugh while it was doing it.

That was what the Smog  _did_.

She coughed. "It's ironic," she gasped to him, her long dark hair sticking to her round face.

He hesitated, then reached back to clutch at her hand. "No," he said quietly, hoarsely, his eyes never leaving the approaching masses, a metal baseball bat loose in his grip. "It's not ironic."

 _Right. Because I'm not the Shwazzy._  Deeba held her breath and squeezed his hand. She clutched the useless, broken UnGun like a club.

It wouldn't be long before the Smog infected that, too. The final surge of dominance, proving that even the UnGun would be defeated in its presence.

"Are you ready?" he whispered.

"I wouldn't want to go any other way."

He nodded. Let go of her hand; she physically ached with emptiness. He raised his bat and she, the solid weight of the UnGun, pressing a quiet kiss to the cool barrel of what had once been the weapon to save them all.

 _Well, I'm not the Shwazzy,_  she thought bitterly.  _But even the funny sidekick can die a hero._


	2. Fall From Grace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a bit shorter and most likely takes place if Deeba and Hemi fail to save UnLondon (maybe someone else does?). As you may notice, this is from Hemi's POV, and yes, they will be switching off for each installment.

He never meant to pull her down with him.

But whenever Hemi brought it up, Deeba simply laughed, took his hand, caught him in a quick peck, and shook her head.

"Don't be silly. I'm not the Shwazzy. It's not like it was  _avoidable_."

Hemi had to wonder, though. Had she always known that he would drag her down in this never-ending spiral? That she would be the one to hit rock bottom with him--just because she'd made the mistake of caring?

He'd always known that he'd be dirty. The filth of the slums, of emptish houses, of poverty and thievery and discrimination. He'd never had a pedestal to fall from; he'd never had expectations to fail to meet; he'd never had anyone to disappoint or let down.

Except, maybe, her. But did that really count, now that she was down too?

Deeba, still smiling even if looking a little troubled, nicked a tennis ball from a nearby stand with a flick of her wrist and practiced ease. She grinned at him, bit into the ball and licked at the sour juices that dribbled down her chin. He watched, his face blank.

 _She's gotten good at that. I don't suppose she did it on her own, either,_  he thought, remembering the time he'd spent teaching her that very trick (especially hard since she wasn't half ghost).

"Really, Hemi, let it go." Her smile faltered. "We're not the saviors of UnLondon anymore. We don't have to be high and mighty. There's no prophecies to fulfill, no dreams to chase after, no city to save."

And now she was serious. She stopped, looked up at him.

"You know those days are over."

And he just looked down at her, wondering.

_When did she change from the Unchosen One to a street urchin? When did she become like me?_


	3. Unexpected

Everything about him was  _un_.

 _Un_ usual and  _un_ couth--a jaded, pale half-ghost boy.  _Un_ wanted and  _un_ lucky, an orphan judged and shunned for his mixed heritage.  _Un_ likely and  _un_ acknowledged, a secret hero, a secret _un_ predicted _un_ savior of  _Un_ London.

Mostly, though, he was  _un_ expected.

Unexpected, the first time that Deeba saw him, saving her and her friend's hide from a gang of rubbish in the Backwall Maze. Unexpected, following them to the center of the Rogueday Market, to the bus, to the Roofdom. Unexpected, finding out that he wasn't actually the  _un_ trustworthy ghost-boy who wanted to steal her body, but a jaded kid alone in the world with nothing to hold on to and a massive burden to bear.

More unexpected when he agreed to help her (even if it took a little cash to persuade him); and again, when he went beyond the terms of the agreement and went with her to the Pons Absconditus-when he went with her  _everywhere_ afterwards, from the Talklands to Puzzleborough to Webminster Abbey. Unexpected when he changed that graffiti to praise the  _Un_ Chosen One (because she'd known all along that he did it, even if he would never admit it). Unexpected when he hugged her, clung to her, took her hand, when he finally began to show that he  _cared_  about her much more than he'd like to let on.

Unexpected when he took charge of the ghosts in the final confrontation against the Smog, and unexpected when he ended up the ambassador between the living and the dead, dressed in neat ghost-clothes. Unexpected when he looked so sullen at the thought of never seeing her again, and twice as unexpected when he asked her to go exploring another abcity—with him, just the two of them, like it used to be.

It was ridiculously unexpected that he held her hand on the train on the way there, for no apparent reason, and that a blush crept up both of their faces (again, for no discernible reason). Unexpected that he and she could have so much fun, just the two of them, when they  _weren't_  running for their lives or busy saving the world. Unexpected--the tiny spark that grew and grew into a flame to be nurtured, from platonic to something more to something  _love_.

Unexpected, the first time he kissed her, his hair in his eyes and his face and neck flushed.

Unexpected when she pushed back, her heart pounding, blood roaring, flushed all over and giddy and riddled with butterflies, warm in his arms.

Even more unexpected that now, years later, every single kiss still felt the exact same way.


	4. Underground

Sometimes he remembered the days when no one knew their names. When it was him and Deeba and their tiny group of friends up against the whole abcity—up against the bloody  _Smog_. When they were nothing but the Chosen One—even before the  _Un_ Chosen one—and her motley crew of helpers, a mysterious legendary assortment destined to save the world.

They used to be totally underground. They used emptish houses as shelters, even though anyone would gladly shelter the Shwazzy—or her replacement, even. They shuffled by on secret exchanged favors and bargains and barreled their way through the challenges with their own efforts instead of the boundless help they should have been getting from UnLondoners everywhere.

Oh, they could've used the Shwazzy's namesake; they could have pretended, and everything would have been much easier. There would have been help, and maybe UnLondon wouldn't be so eager to believe Brokkenbroll instead of Deeba, because hey—it's the  _Shwazzy_   we're talking about here, innit?

But that would have made them too easy to find, wouldn't it? And more importantly, it would have been a lie. Hemi knew that Deeba would never let UnLondon believe something that wasn't true. Even if he sometimes used to crave the fame—the  _acceptance_ —that being one of the Shwazzy's lot would have gained him, he knew that too well. And he agreed.

Now, though, he was one of the  _Un_ Chosen. One of those few who used to be so little-known, so underground, so underappreciated—one of those few whose names were now known across all the abcities. One of the few that saved them all from the Smog. He'd never lacked for attention, though mostly it was the bad kind, because who'd dote on a half-breed ghost kid who was rumored to go body-nicking here and there and everywhere?

And now, even though he really did like not being shunned--it was a nice change of pace--he sort of missed those days when they were underground—especially when it was just him and her. It was a challenge in every sense of the word, it made him feel unique and special in a way that he couldn't describe. There was something exciting about having exclusive information, an exclusive goal, something that not everybody knew about or could share in.

Now everyone knew his name, stopped him on the street for an autograph, snapped his picture on every corner, congratulated him on saving UnLondon. Practically  _worshipped_  him. Seemed like he could never go anywhere— _they_ could never go anywhere—without being followed by exclamations or snapshots or crowding reporters seeking new tabloid stories for the graffitied walls. He missed the days when he actually had alone time, when people left him to himself. At least then he had time to  _think_.

He missed the days when it was just him and her most of all, actually. Nowadays it was really, _really_  hard to lose the buzzing crowd so that he could just hold her hand in quiet, peaceful silence and maybe take a walk. It was inestimably difficult get away from the paparazzi long enough to kiss her long and slow like he always wanted to.

The only thing that made it worth it was knowing that she deserved every bit of attention. She saved the world, after all. The world _s_. And she was always happy to sign someone's strangely simple uniform or pose for a picture. It made them happy—and that made her happy—and even if he didn't want to admit it, that made _him_  happy.

Which, unfortunately, meant that he'd have to steal a quick kiss when he could and wait patiently. That was okay. She made it all worth it. She always had—always would.


	5. Library Archives

Her friends never knew the reason she suddenly developed a love of libraries.

"Yikes, Deebs," Zanna would say as she made to depart towards the library (unknown to them, to spend a few days in UnLondon), "sticking your nose in the books  _again?_ "

"Yep," Deeba would reply, completely unfazed. "Gotta keep the grades up, right?"

"I 'unno," teased Becks. " _I_  think she's got a beau in there that she isn't telling us about. Sure sneaks off often enough to go  _snog_  him. That's it, innit?"

And the rest of the girls would laugh and Deeba would blush and start to look a little wistful. It was just another one of those moments when she wanted to tell her friends, especially Zanna, of UnLondon and all the people in it, but she couldn't, and that was one thing she knew for sure.

"Quit teasing," Deeba would say instead. "You know I'm not the type."

Zanna would sigh long-sufferingly and wave goodbye to go hang out at the café with the others, and Deeba would smile and wave, smile and wave until they were long gone, because she, at least, would be missing them in the week or two she'd be away.

More and more often she found herself dreaming of the library archives. The sweet rush of curling her fingers around a shelf, the weight of a backpack on her shoulders and the titles of the books as she climbed higher, higher, higher, _higher_ than any bookshelf should go. After all, all bookshelves lead to the Wordhoard Pit--and the Wordhoard Pit was the gateway to UnLondon.

She felt like a bookaneer, then. Not the UnChosen one (though she was, in UnLondon) and not simply Deeba (which she was in London), but a delightful in-between that was not as exhausting as either, that made her feel alive but let her keep some semblance of control. Sometimes she thought she'd like to be a bookaneer full-time, because then she'd always have an adventure to wake up to, but another part of her wanted nothing more than to be  _normal_. To never  _have_  to save the world again.

It was a strange mix. A mix that the library archives were kind enough to mute among the thousands of titles, getting curiouser and curiouser as she ascended (she'd passed Alice in Wonderland several times, and even similar-looking books like Wonder in Aliceland, and she was pretty sure that over the years she'd found at least one or two spines that boasted stories of  _Un_ Wonderland).

She'd gotten really good at skirting the vicious book tribes (she had a scar or two from one particular incident that she wouldn't like to repeat) and knocking wordcrows down. (She'd even found that if you whistled really loudly, the high-pitched noise would bother them and scare them away.)

She loved these archives, she really did, even the wordcrows and book tribes and strange, strange titles.

But what Deeba loved the most about them was finally climbing up over the rim of the Wordhoard Pit, greeted by the almost-breathtaking view of the strange, wonderful abcity that was UnLondon--

And the sweet, smiling face of the boy whose prompt kiss actually  _did_  take her breath away.

"Becks was right," Deeba laughed as she pulled away, still leaning against him but turning her gaze towards the abcity she loved even more than the library archives. She put her head on his chest and sighed contentedly.

"Right about what?" Hemi asked, smile still on his face, arms wrapped loosely around her as he rested his chin on her head.

"I  _do_  have a sweetheart I go to meet—and  _snog_ —in the library."


	6. Magnifying Glass

Hemi, she knew, thought the magnifying glass was utterly ridiculous.

“Look at you,” he’d say, half fond but half unmistakably mocking, “adopting all the little bits of moil. What’ll you be? The Countess of Crap?”

“He _mi_ ,” she would scold, tutting and crossing her arms but grinning all the same. “You’re such a spoilsport. Magnus is not _crap_ , okay.”

“You’ve gone and named it already,” he’d say, and she would nod defiantly. “Just as brilliant as your last job, innit?”

Deeba would glance at Curdle the discarded milk carton and shrug, picking up Magnus the magnifying glass (there _was_ an admittedly undeniable vein of similarity between the thought processes behind the names, she knew), patting it, and peering through it, giving her nut-brown face and dark eyes a distorted, comical look at best and an undeniably freakish one at worst. He would raise his eyebrows, and she would notice in stark contrast how pale he was compared to her.

“You’re just jealous,” she would insist, “that I spend more time babying my pets than I do you.”

Hemi would roll his eyes, muttering about how daft she was, but she knew that it was true to at least some extent. She knew that she didn’t pay him enough attention, that other friends and other adventures and other _things_ in general distracted her far too much for his liking. Hemi was the type to get a little possessive, and she knew very well that it stemmed from the fact that he’d watched both of his parents abandon him. It didn’t help that being a thief got him into the habit of holding tight to anything that was truly _his_ —and she _was_ —and that being shunned his entire life meant he was more insecure than ever about her interest in him.

He shouldn’t have worried, really; in fact it was just plain silly that he did in the first place. Deeba had no intentions of leaving any time soon, or ever, really. There was nothing romantic or cliché or ridiculously teenage about it—it was just the way things _were_.

What Hemi didn’t know, that she should probably have told him at some point, was that her favorite part of having Magnus around was looking at _him_ through it. Especially his _lips_.

 _Especially_ especially since it meant that she caught him off guard whenever she went to shut him up with a not-really-as-random-as-she-claimed kiss.

It took Hemi a good while to realize that he got snogged _much_ more often when that magnifying glass was around. After he did, though, there was, thankfully, much less Micheal-taking for all involved. 


	7. Recruitment

The funny thing about recruitment was that it was much easier to accomplish when one wasn't _trying_ to recruit.

He spent many of his days now walking through the streets with a stack of flyers stuffed under the arm of his favorite ghost-clothes jacket, the short, round-faced Unchosen One at his side with a similar load. It had been her idea, of course; Deeba was always coming up with all sorts of ideas, and it didn't matter how inane they were, because the Propheseers loved them any way and she promptly ignored any protest of his.

Not that he protested in earnest, because this idea, at the very least, was one with a foundation. "The next time some big bugger comes to take out UnLondon, we can't just wait for a Schwazzy to wander in and fall over at a bop of her head again. We need to be ready."

And so there were hundreds of copies of their quirky little flyer, _The UnChosen Militia_ scrawled at the top. And so too there were many good citizens who joined up--but not nearly enough. Not _nearly_ the masses that had joined their UnChosen one at Unstible's factory on the night everything had gone to hell.

"I don't get it," she muttered irritably after yet another day of fruitlessness. "They were so eager to help _then_ , when the city had gone to rubbish, but they're not willing to help _stop_ things from going downhill again?"

Hemi flopped his stack down with no small distaste, maneuvering her shoulders under his arm instead and propping his chin on her head. Deeba had remained short with his sprawling growth, an item provoking endless surliness from her.

"You know people, Deebs," he told her. "They like to live in their own little dream worlds where things don't go wrong. They like to think that since the Book ain't never said 'bout a threat after the Smog, nothing will happen. Doesn't matter that the Book's been wrong before."

She sighed. "I suppose you're right," she told him. "It was the desperation that got them in the first place. I imagine they only rallied to me because I was the only one to rally to."

He smirked. "Dunno 'bout that."

"Oh, please."

"Nah, really."

"And why's that?"

"There wasn't even anything to rally _for_ when you had me tailing you like a lost puppy."

Deeba broke into laughter, grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, and dragged his mouth to hers.

"More like a money-grubbing mongrel," she managed between kisses.

"And lucky you were for that."

"And lucky I _was._ "


End file.
